Sparks rise into the cold black air.
We the living huddle by the source.
We’ve a pail of frigid water to wash our hair
And the lot of us smell more or less like horse.
The moon is but a crack in gloomy midnight.
Our dinner was a lukewarm can of beans.
We’re thirsty after hours in harsh sunlight
But there’s no clean water to fill up our canteens.
Somewhere in the blackness comes a growling
And we dare not leave our camp to take a piss.
All the while Daddy is a smiling
While the rest of the family thinks “we paid for this?”